MOON IN AN AIR RAID
A PEBBLE plumbing in a mountain pool,
The wind of warning shining through the black Circling outward, ripple wide and cool Echoing ever to the poles and back, It blows the searching fingers in the sky Grey pampas grasses feathered in a vase.
Below, a drifting atom, here stand I ; Above, a swarm of silver bees, the stars.
A silver gong, among them, hangs the moon Waiting to echo out the knell of time What would you speak of came the stroke too soon?
What silver melody compose the chime?
Have you the singing music of the spheres Or, parchment, drum-like roll a thunder beat?
Rather the wild string sadness of the years And broken glasses splintered over-sweet.
But see—the singing arrows—poison, flight—
Where shall they target with their mortal kiss?
The pampas grasses flutter in the night—
What is your melody for such as this?
HAZEL WATSON.
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